


my love for you is chaos

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Big Mistake), Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier Tries to Learn Magic, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27862730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Yennefer’s hands paused in her hair. “Yes, even him,” she answered after a beat. “The difference is if you can control it or not. Many people never access the power in them. Some try and face the consequences of failure.”Cirilla twisted around, peering up at her with wide, curious eyes. “What happens if you fail?”Jaskier held his breath, just as curious. Yennefer frowned, looking almost sad. It was a rare sight. “You are consumed by it,” she said. “The magic overpowers you, turns you into a being of pure magic.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 103





	my love for you is chaos

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo im very happy with how this turned out and i hope yall enjoy it too!!!!   
> remember that kudos & comments mean a lot <3
> 
> twitter: queermight  
> tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier hated Yennefer. He knew it was unfair, considering she hadn’t actually _done_ anything to him. Geralt didn’t belong to him. Yennefer was free to be with him, sleep with him, laugh with him, even if Jaskier wanted to scream every time he saw them together.

But he still hated her because he didn’t _understand_ what she had that he didn’t.

That wasn’t quite true, to be fair. She was obviously gorgeous, had curves in all the places Jaskier didn’t. He didn’t think that was it, though. No, the biggest difference was who they were, deep down. Yennefer was powerful, a force to be reckoned with. She could conjure _literal_ fire out of thin air. As if that wasn’t enough, he had heard she was fairly skilled with a dagger too.

Jaskier was—well, he was a fucking bard. Of course Geralt would never want him, when she was there.

Maybe if he was more like her, he used to think, but that was impossible. He could learn his way around a dagger, he supposed, but he couldn’t be like her in the ways that _mattered_. He didn’t have magic.

*

“Chaos is in all of us.”

It was, ironically, Yennefer that planted the idea in his head. She was visiting Kaer Morhen - unlike the rest of them, she came and went as she pleased - when he overheard her talking to Cirilla in the courtyard. She was braiding the hair of the princess, who sat on the ground between her open legs.

“Even people like Jaskier?” she asked innocently. Jaskier winced, though he knew she meant no harm.

Yennefer’s hands paused in her hair. “Yes, even him,” she answered after a beat. “The difference is if you can control it or not. Many people never access the power in them. Some try and face the consequences of failure.”

Cirilla twisted around, peering up at her with wide, curious eyes. “What happens if you fail?”

Jaskier held his breath, just as curious. Yennefer frowned, looking almost sad. It was a rare sight. “You are consumed by it,” she said. “The magic overpowers you, turns you into a being of pure magic.”

“Must be powerful,” she said thoughtfully.

Yennefer nodded. “Powerful and dangerous. They lose all their humanity.”

“And that won’t happen to me?” she asked with a hint of fear. Yennefer leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head.

“Of course not,” she said. “I’ll teach you how to control it.”

Jaskier turned and ran down the hall back toward his room. He narrowly missed Geralt when he quickly rounded a corner, stumbling a few steps. Geralt grabbed his arm, steadying him. He smiled gratefully at him.

“In a rush?” he asked with an amused quirk of his mouth.

Ever since Cirilla had entered his life, he had changed. Now his smiles weren’t quite so rare, now he was more honest with Jaskier. All of them. He should’ve been pleased with the development, and he was, but he was also childishly bitter. He should feel lucky to even be here, when he wasn’t able to provide. Geralt assured him his study sessions with Cirilla were important but he was pretty sure he was just being nice.

“Just feeling a bit tired,” he said, an easy enough lie.

Geralt nodded, releasing his arm. Jaskier watched as he turned away without another word, walking toward the courtyard. Back to the people that understood him in a way he couldn’t. The rage felt like a fire in the pit of his stomach, threatening to consume him.

Yennefer’s words echoed in the back of his head: _chaos is in all of us._ Biting the inside of his cheek, he changed directions and walked to the library.

*

He collected as many spells as he could over the next few days, spending most of his time in the library. He started with simple stuff, like conjuring a flame in the palm of your hand, before digging through the more complicated stuff, books so old he sneezed with every page he turned. Geralt showed up on the fifth day.

Jaskier was curled up in one of the chairs, a book open in his lap.

“You’re still here.”

He looked up. Geralt stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a deep frown on his face. Jaskier could only imagined he didn’t look very good, given his lack of sleep.

“Ciri told me you haven’t been sleeping,” he said, the disapproval obvious in his voice.

Jaskier closed the book. “I have been,” he said. “Just not in my room.” Or for very long, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Hm,” was his only reply as he stepped closer, peering at the cover of the book in his lap. Jaskier stiffened, suddenly wishing he’d been more alert and could’ve hidden it sooner. Geralt tilted his head to the side. “Interested in ancient magic all of a sudden?”

Jaskier swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“I thought I could at least try and educate myself, considering I can’t do much else,” he said evenly.

Geralt softened, visibly, and—Jaskier’s chest ached with love for him. “You do plenty,” he replied, stepping closer still to put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Jaskier had started to hate his casual touches, for he wanted more.

He was the worst person ever. The worst friend ever.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he said brightly, forcing a smile. He stood with the book tucked under one of his arms. “I’m sure you have better places to be,” he continued, like training Cirilla or curled up in bed with Yennefer.

Geralt eyed the book. “Are you going to your room?”

Jaskier blinked. “Yes.”

“To sleep?” he asked, and Jaskier sighed heavily.

“Yes,” he said. He would sleep, after all, once he’d finished the book and copied down any notable spells.

Geralt reached out again, briefly squeezing his shoulder before letting go. “You should eat too, when you get a chance.”

Jaskier should’ve been moved, maybe, that he seemed to care so much. Instead all he felt was that ugly bitterness ( _jealously_ ) that he’d felt, on and off, since the moment he’d stumbled to a window and caught sight of Geralt - the man he’d loved _first_ , dammit - fucking Yennefer. He would’ve been fine with sex, of course. He couldn’t judge there. It was the way Geralt had chased after her like a lost puppy, after, that really made him want to cry. He took a deep breath and smiled again. “I will.”

*

Jaskier didn’t know where to begin. From his studies, and the bits of information he could pick up from Yennefer without being too suspicious, he just had to go for it. Try and summon the chaos in his core. He assumed it was safer to start with small spells, so that was what he did. He never practiced in his room, too obvious, not private enough, not with the way Geralt let himself in or Cirilla burst in without so much as a knock.

Picking one of the towers, he practiced there every night. Starting from the first page of his notes, he tried the simplest spells. As expected, he couldn’t do a damned thing.

He just had to keep trying, obviously. He had always been stubborn. If Yennefer could do it, so could he.

Every morning, he trudged to the dining hall and Geralt would stare at him with a frown, stopping him after breakfast. “You look like crap, Jaskier,” he said, which he knew was his way of caring.

Jaskier forced a bright smile. “I’ve been struck with inspiration,” he said, which wasn’t completely untrue.

He hummed. “Is that why you’ve been sneaking off every night?”

Jaskier stiffened, genuinely not expecting the switch of topic. “Well—yes,” he answered, clearing his throat. “It’s quiet, good for writing.”

Geralt nodded, though he continued to stare at him like he didn’t quite believe him. “You know if you, mm.” He paused, looking off to the side and back again. “If you need to talk, or need help with anything, I’m here.”

It was sweet, really. Jaskier wished he didn’t feel crying. Geralt could offer his help but the one thing Jaskier really wanted would always be out of reach.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he replied softly. “I’m really just up there writing. I’m okay.”

Geralt still didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”

Jaskier placed a hand over his heart. “I swear.”

*

The first week was a bust. With more research, he had discovered that chaos relied on give and take. Now he always brought things to give in exchange for trying to take from the reserve that - according to Yennefer and many books - was in every person.

He was getting moodier with every day of failure. They all noticed - Yennefer, Eskel, Lambert, even Cirilla, who wasn’t bothering him _nearly_ as much as usual.

Geralt kept stopping him - in the dining hall, in the hallways, coming in and out of his room. He looked so _worried_ and somehow that just made him want to try harder, bitter and wanting. If he was just more like Yennefer, in the ways he could control, at least, maybe - just _maybe_ \- he would have a chance.

Maybe Geralt would finally _look_ at him. Not just as the stupid bard who’d been accompanying him for decades, but more.

He wouldn’t have Geralt so worried, watching his every move, if he wasn’t so _weak_ , after all. He was weak and useless and knew any other person could teach Cirilla the same crap. He was around because Geralt - in all that he used to insist otherwise - was too nice to kick him out.

Jaskier was basically their dog, there for decoration and the occasional moment of comfort or brief entertainment.

*

“Can you stop it?”

Jaskier looked up; as per usual, Yennefer looked beautiful, standing in the doorway to the library with her arms folded over her chest. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied easily, turning his attention back to the book in his lap.

She scoffed, entering the library with clacks of her heels. “Geralt is worried you’re hiding something from him, and I tried to assure him you were too stupid for anything like—”

Jaskier barely even remembered standing up, or throwing the book, or stomping up to her, all he remembered was the _anger_. “Shut the fuck _up_ ,” he hissed, fire in his eyes. He should’ve been scared, maybe, knowing what Yennefer was capable of, but he wasn’t. He was just so angry. All the time.

She blinked once. “What has crawled up your arse and died?” she asked, and she didn’t sound offended, even, just amused. Jaskier’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Do you know what it _feels_ like,” he was saying before he could think better of it, heart pounding in his chest, “to be so fucking _useless_ all the time?”

She looked nearly pitying - which, really, didn’t do much to ease his rage - as she reached for him. Jaskier pulled back before she could touch him. “Jaskier,” she said, softer than he’d ever heard her, and—he hated it. He _hated_ the fact that he hated her, and for no good reason. She had proven her loyalty to all of them, she was a good person to have on their side, smart and powerful and even a little funny, sometimes, and he hated her. “I’ll have you know,” she continued, her hand fallen, “that I wasn’t always the person you see in front of you.”

“Right,” he laughed harshly. “Boohoo, you had a rotten childhood. Newsflash: so did _all_ of us.”

He hated himself for every word that spilled out of his mouth.

Yennefer frowned. “Did I offend you, somehow?”

“I—” Jaskier sucked in a sudden gulp of air, forcing himself to turn away. “I just want to be alone.”

For a long moment she didn’t leave, as if silently waiting for him to change his mind. He wouldn’t. He didn’t, and eventually she sighed and left the library.

*

Jaskier went to the tower that night, both because he had to keep trying and he just—he really _did_ need to be alone. Pulling out one of the pages with the more complex spells on it, he swallowed around the lump in his throat and ignored the throbbing in the back of his head, telling him this was a very, very bad idea.

He didn’t fucking _care_.

Placing the page down, he crouched in front of it and opened his bag, pulling out the ingredients for it. It was a complex spell but for a fairly boring result—a thunderstorm. If he succeeded, none of them would suspect a thing.

He planned to tell them, obviously, eventually, but only once he had it more under control.

Jaskier silently put all the ingredients together in a bowl, ripping petals off flowers, pouring a bit of water from his wineskin. Somehow he could _feel_ it, for the first time ever, this tiny spark in his chest, pulsing with every second he grew closer to performing the spell. That had to be a good sign, right? Practice makes perfect.

Once all the ingredients were in the bowl, he ground and mixed them. His chest felt tight, not unlike when he was forced to watch Yennefer and Geralt together. Thankfully they hadn’t kissed in front of him in a while. Maybe Yennefer had finally started to pity him.

“Please,” he begged as he grabbed the paper. “Please fucking work.”

The first word felt like fire on his tongue. He shuddered, pushing on. Every word was more painful to say than the last, his hands shaking as he gripped the paper tightly. He could do this. He could be useful. He could be _powerful_.

Jaskier barely realized he was crying. Didn’t matter. He pushed on.

When he said the last word, all he felt was pain, like his chest was being ripped open.


End file.
